


plastic flower

by toomoon (jjjat3am)



Series: Fly With Us [1]
Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Kingdom, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 16:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20763677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/toomoon
Summary: The poet Dongju listens to his king play the flute.





	plastic flower

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired entirely by [Geonhak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnNJjilWAaU) and [Dongju](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NlSinHj08KA)'s trailers for the new album. 
> 
> Unbetaed, we die like men.

The music wound its way softly around the palace. It swept through paper thin walls and under cracks below doors, and nobles and servants alike paused in their routines to listen. The mournful sound of the flute spilled into the garden alongside the cooling September breeze, sweeping through trees and ruffling the rose petals blooming on scraggly stems.

The poet Dongju stopped in his contemplation of an azalea bush. It had been resplendent in summer, in reds and oranges, but now the blooms had faded into muted dark green leaves. There was a poem in there if Dongju tried to find it hard enough.

But maybe another day. Today, the king was playing his music, weaving a spell across the palace grounds and Dongju was as powerless to resist it as anyone.

He closed his eyes and listened as the music rose above all. He imagined the king, in his private quarters, without his heavy robes, the thin shift he wore underneath spilling across the bamboo floors where he sat, strong masculine fingers delicately moving across the flute. His head would be bowed over the instrument like he never would in front of any man, his noble brow smooth and his expressive eyes closed, his cherry red mouth pressed against the instrument in a parody of a lover's kiss.

There was a poem in that too, just out of reach, but Dongju didn't worry. It would come in time. In his time at the palace he'd written plenty of odes to his king, spreading the word of his wisdom, his strength in battle and his unearthly beauty far across the lands. The blushing pleasure that stole across his king's usually stoic face when he heard them was its own reward.

Dongju opened his eyes as the music softened, then faded away. Life in the palace resumed with a murmur of awed voices. Dongju contemplated his writing materials in front of him. Some of the papers had been scattered by the wind and he got up sedately to pick them up and tuck them securely in his satchel among the others.

He then took off at a brisk pace to the palace, hurrying down the shadowed corridors. His king was alone, after all.

Maybe he'd welcome some company.

  
  


*

  
  


The king Leedo sat on the wooden step leading to his private garden. The sweep of green scattered with bright blooming rose bushes gave the illusion of privacy, even though there were guards stationed in every shadowed corner of the clearing. He checked out of habit and caught a flash of displaced darkness closest to him. Seoho, with his impish grin. 

The king Leedo settled more comfortably in his seat. His shoulders felt looser, lighter without the heavy weight of his robes. The same couldn't be said for his head, filled with worries as it was. There was trouble brewing in the East, as always. He'd called his nobles back to the palace for a summit and the palace was aflutter with preparations for an evening full of dancing and feasting. It was stressful enough that the king had begged off for a few hours in his own company.

Now that he got it, he found himself still wracked with worry and unable to let go. He'd considered calling for the poet Dongju because the younger man always knew how to relieve his burdens, but the palace gossips whispered enough about them as it was.

The king Leedo bowed his head over his flute, the smooth bamboo comforting in his grip and he willed away the flush that threatened to draw over his cheeks. He brought the instrument to his lips and started to play.

Perhaps the poet would hear it from his contemplation in the place gardens and answer its siren's call.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/leewoong) and [CC](https://curiouscat.me/hwansloth)


End file.
